Beauty is held in impermanence.
Or so they say.
The joy of cherry blossoms mingles with the knowledge that soon their petals will rain down, a subtle remainder of the death we all will face.
Blooming once a year makes you ask if this year will be the last time.
Will your next year, should it come, bring flowers?
If so, will they be the flowers of celebration?
Or the rote flowers of memorialization?
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Deadly Troubadour 